Deep Cut

by Nick Sullivan

  “How is the girl doing?” Gerald inquired.

  “Considering what she went through, she’s doing well,” Emily said. “I stayed with her and her parents at the hospital for a while last night.”

  “And the young man? Any clues as to his whereabouts?” Gordon asked.

  “No,” she said, her voice sobering further. “But it doesn’t look good. She thinks the man killed him.”

  “Sid says, once the storm has passed, the police will mount a wider search,” Boone said. “For the kidnapper, too.”

  “Well, at least you got the villain’s vehicle!” Gordon said.

  “Yeah, spot of luck there,” Emily said.

  “It’ll be a lot harder for him to get around,” Gerald remarked. “Not likely he’ll risk hitchhiking, with the police searching for him.”

  “Unless he’s using the trails…” Boone mused.

  “Well, he’d better enjoy them while he can. Once Irma hits, those trails will become mud and fallen limbs.”

  “What’s in the bottle?” Emily asked, pointing at an unlabeled liter bottle filled with brown liquid beside the bag of croissants. “Looks like flat soda.”

  “Well, since there’s no telling how long we’ll be holed up at Chez Hollenbeck,” Gordon said, “we headed over to Lucy Hassell’s to grab some of her homemade specialty. This is Saba Spice, one of the island’s traditional products, the other being Saba Lace. Everyone’s Spice is a little different, but it’s basically a high-proof rum infused with cinnamon, fennel, cloves, and brown sugar.”

  “I like it on vanilla ice cream,” Gerald said. “In fact, just in case we lose power, we probably should have that tonight.”

  “Sounds scrummy!” Emily said. “So, what time do you want us there?”

  “Any time is fine. Gordon and I made up both guest rooms, in case we find any additional wayward strays. Curfew is ten p.m., I heard.”

  “Well, I suppose we can run back to the Hummingbird Haven now and fetch our things,” Boone said, rising from the table. “See you in a few?”

  “The welcome mat will be unfurled,” Gordon intoned.

  By late afternoon, Boone and Emily arrived at the home of the Double Gs. Sure enough, there was a welcome mat with the words Ring the bell, and I shall sing you the song of my people. Sincerely, The Dog. There wasn’t a doorbell, but a light rap on the doorframe brought a high-pitched burst of barking and a little tuft-eared pooch, smaller than most cats, came into view. A furiously wagging nub of a tail was at odds with the bark, but she dashed out of sight when Gerald let the couple in.

  “That was Juniper, a.k.a. Junie, a.k.a. Nipper. She can be a bit people-shy but she’ll warm up to you in no time. Gordon’s in the cellar, conquering his fears with the washer and dryer. Come along. I’ll give you the nickel tour and you can pick a guest room.”

  After a quick once-through, Boone brought the bags into the guest room Emily had selected.

  “Why’d you choose this one?” Boone asked.

  “Bigger bed.”

  Boone arched an eyebrow.

  “Not for bonking! The other room, your feet would’ve dangled off the end.”

  “Oh,” Boone said, coloring his voice with a touch of disappointment.

  Emily traced a finger along his arm. “That being said… a little ‘how’s your father’ in a hurricane might take our minds off impending doom.”

  A knock came at the door. “I have something for you.” Gordon held out a pair of lanyards.

  Emily took them. “Whistles?”

  “Just a precaution. As I said, our cottage is very sturdy, like most of the construction on Saba. All the same, I thought it might be wise for everyone to have one of these, just in case everything goes pear-shaped.”

  Emily held one up. “Lime green! How did you know?”

  “I’m a former Broadway dresser, my dear. I have an eye for clothes, and you have a particular palette preference.”

  “What gave me away, my stylish trainers?” Emily asked, raising a sockless foot and waggling her lime green tennis shoes. She slid the lanyard over her head and tucked the whistle into her tank top. “Here Boone, you get pink.”

  Boone grinned, dropping the lanyard around his neck. “Like a Bonaire flamingo. Hey, I think I’ll head over to the police annex, see if Sid found out anything else. Wanna come?”

  Emily’s reply was arrested by a jingling sound as Juniper the Yorkipoo made her entrance, charging after a miniature tennis ball and skidding to a halt as the toy rolled against Emily’s foot. “I dunno, Boone… I may need to stay here and commune with this little lady. Hey, wittle snookums, you want your ball?”

  The pup crouched at attention, tail wagging, as Emily rolled the ball across the floor. Juniper dashed after it, claws scrabbling on the wooden floors.

  “Give Sid my best,” Emily said with a grin, scampering after the little dog.

  “What’s the latest on Irma?” Boone asked as he entered the little annex.

  Sid looked up from his computer, his face uncharacteristically grim. “It’s not looking good. Let me refresh.” He clicked the touchpad and waited, shaking his head at the information that appeared. “Holy… 178 miles per hour. She’s been a strong Category 5 since this morning, but that’s just…” He opened another window on the screen and looked at a chart. “The Saffir-Simpson Scale has a Cat 5 starting at 157, and this is over 20 miles per hour above that! If there were such a thing as a Category 6, Irma would be in the running.”

  Boone grabbed a chair from opposite Sid’s desk and dragged it around to look at the laptop. “Is this the strongest you’ve experienced?”

  Sid barked a rueful laugh. “Boone, this is probably the strongest anyone in the Leewards has experienced.” He pointed at the map. “And I wouldn’t want to be here.”

  Boone leaned in to look. “Barbuda.”

  “Current track forecasts a direct hit there just after midnight and Barbuda is mostly at sea level. The saving grace on Saba is our geography. Storm surge is the number one killer in a hurricane and there’s no chance of that here. Well, except in Fort Bay… but there are no residences there and it will be entirely evacuated.”

  “What time do they expect Irma will reach Saba?”

  “There’s still room for error, but probably around seven or eight in the morning. Track is taking the eye a bit north of us, but the storm is well over 300 miles wide, so we’ll almost certainly be in heavy wind bands.”

  Boone blew out a gust of breath. “Looks like I picked the wrong time to switch islands.”

  “This is Saba—we’re a fortress! You’ll be fine. You’re staying with Gordon and Gerald, right?”

  “The Double Gs, yes.” When Sid snorted a laugh, Boone held up a hand. “Full disclosure, that one was Emily’s.”

  “Of course it was.”

  “Your dad, is he going to be okay?”

  “The wound wasn’t bad. He’s actually back at his desk, deploying the troops. We’ve got everything in hand, I think. Shelters are ready, curfew set, Royal Dutch Marines are in place. Nothing left to do, really. Some jackass decided to steal Mrs. Beach’s car last night, a little yellow Hyundai Getz, but we’ll deal with that after Irma. I’ll actually be closing the annex here in a moment, if you feel like latching a few shutters.”

  “Happy to.” Boone rose. “Any word on the missing boy?”

  Sid went sober again. “No. And no sign of the kidnapper, either. He’s probably gone to ground. One thing’s for sure. With the port and airport closed, he’s not going anywhere.”

  “Oh, bugger, I forgot my dry bag.” Emily looked up from where she sat cross-legged on the floor, the Yorkipoo pup perched across a bare knee, contentedly chewing a plastic toy.

  “Well, is there anything you really need in it?” Gerald asked.

  “My GoPro is in there… I’d like to film
during the storm. And Boone asked me to stick his ridiculously bright dive torch in there, and that might come in handy, yeah?”

  “Well, it’s only half past four. You’ve got plenty of time,” Gordon said. “It’s really just a waiting game, from this point forward.”

  “Right-o. Back in a jiff.” Emily headed for the door, pausing to address the Double Gs’ little dog, who had scampered after her. “And you, you little fuzzball, guard the house for me, yeah?”

  The shadows were lengthening as she left the neighborhood behind the Saba Tourism office and turned left on The Road, walking past the Brigadoon pub. Nearly every cottage and store she passed was shuttered, as everyone hunkered down for the approaching hurricane. A light misting rain had begun, a refreshing tropical shower on any other day, but Emily suspected this was the outermost part of the storm.

  The rental cottage was only a ten-minute walk from town and its red roof was soon in sight. Stepping off the road onto the sloping driveway, Emily immediately spotted a little yellow car parked off to the side. Probably the landlord, making a last check of the property. Emily had never seen Amber’s car, since the landlord had always walked over, but with the drizzle it made sense she’d choose to drive today. She walked around the cottage to the door and spied a pair of hummingbirds hovering about.

  “Aw, you’re looking for your feeders, aren’t you?” she said to the flitting little birds. “We’ll have them back up, don’t you worry. Now run along and find shelter!” A bleat rose from below and she spotted a pair of goats in a thicket of branches downslope from the cottage. “You too, goats!” Where do animals go during a major storm? she wondered, as she opened the door and entered the dark interior of the shuttered cottage. She realized she still had her sunglasses on. Not unusual—she typically wore them until sunset. Hooking them on the neckline of her tank top, she reached over to flip the light switch. Nothing happened. Great. Storm’s not even here and we’ve lost power. Then it occurred to her that the landlord had probably come here to shut things off, knowing that Boone and Emily were sheltering elsewhere for the storm.

  “Hey, Amber? You cut the power? I just forgot some stuff. You need a hand with anything?”

  No answer. Maybe she’s in the cellar, Emily thought, as she pulled out her smartphone and activated the flashlight function. She made her way to the bedroom and grabbed her dry bag. Returning, she found the door to the small, unfinished cellar and opened it, shining the light down the steps. “Amber? You down there? It’s Emily.” Silence. Maybe she’s out back, she thought. She closed the door and turned.

  There was a large shape blocking the hallway.

  “Emily… that’s a beautiful name.” The voice was cold, matter-of-fact.

  Although the phone’s light wasn’t directly on the man, there was enough illumination to know it was him, without a doubt. The man who had probably kidnapped that young couple. The man who might have killed someone on another island. The man she herself had seen a few days before. The coveralls, the hulking size. Although Emily felt a wave of fear and adrenaline washing over her synapses, urging her to RUN, she kept her cool. The man was blocking the hall to both exits. Instead of screaming, she spoke.

  “Oh thank God, you’re here. The power’s out. You’re the handyman, right? Amber said she was coming over any minute, so I thought that was her car, but it’s yours, right?”

  The man looked briefly confused by the burst of speech.

  “Yes indeedy, Amber will be here any second but maybe you can get started, yeah? The fuse box is in the basement, I think.” She reopened the door, but the man stepped closer and pushed it shut with a large hand.

  “No.” He reached for her.

  Emily instantly knew she wasn’t talking her way out of this. Remembering Sophie’s mantra for Krav Maga—whatever works—she did several things in rapid succession: she screamed “Humming-goats!” figuring the non sequitur might confuse a synapse or two; tossed her flash-lit phone up towards the man’s face, hoping he might instinctively grab for it—he did; and then kicked the man right in the balls. Her tennis shoe wasn’t exactly a steel-toed boot and the man’s coveralls were baggy, so the kick was by no means perfect, but he grunted in pain and staggered back. Emily dropped her dry bag and pushed past him, heading for the nearest exit, the back door in the kitchen. Bits of waning sunlight penetrated cracks in the shutters here and there and she managed to cross the kitchen, her fingers scrabbling for the knob. Just as they found it, an animalistic growl sounded from behind and a hand gripped her ponytail, yanking her head backward. No, no, no, no—

  Her assailant pulled Emily back against him as a hard-muscled forearm wrapped around her throat, his other arm locking behind her head, clamping her carotid arteries into a vise. Emily’s fear reached stratospheric levels—Sophie had showed her this very chokehold. I’ve only got seconds before I pass out. She twisted to the side, trying to apply pressure to the man’s wrist, but his grip was like iron. Tiny spots of light began to swim in her vision. Fighting off panic, she switched tactics, slamming her heel down on the man’s instep. The stomp was too far forward, smashing down on his toes. The man roared and lifted her tiny frame bodily from the ground, arching his back to hold her against his chest, the chokehold still locked in place.

  Emily kicked her feet in the air, trying to reach the wall. If I can just push off….

  But the sparkles on the edge of her vision suddenly became a flood.

  Boone…!

  Darkness took her.

  At dusk, Boone stepped out of the rain and into the cottage. He was immediately greeted by Juniper, who jumped repeatedly at his side until he scooped her up, giving her a vigorous ear scratch. The sounds of chopping echoed from the kitchen and he made his way back to find Gordon and Gerald preparing dinner.

  “Welcome back, young man,” Gordon said. “What did Sid have to say?”

  “Well, a few things, but the main takeaway was that we’re likely in for a big one. Irma’s a strong Cat 5 and coming right this way.” He paused. “Where’s Emily?”

  “She went back for her dry bag.” Gerald scooped a layer of diced onion onto his chef’s knife and sent it into a pot on the stove. “She said she wanted her GoPro and some kind of dive light for the storm.”

  “Oh.” He set the little puppy down. “When did she go?” The rain had picked up and it would be sunset soon.

  “Right after you left,” Gordon said, unscrewing the cap to the bottle of Saba Spice. “Care for a pre-hurricane tipple?”

  “Not just now, thanks.” Something’s wrong. After helping Sid shutter the annex, Boone had decided to run by Sea Saba before returning. He’d heard they were quite good at reading the weather forecasts over there and figured a little extra information couldn’t hurt. Boone had been gone for well over an hour—the walk to the rental cottage was only ten minutes.

  “Are you all right, young man?”

  Boone looked up. “I want to go get Emily,” he said. “She should have been back by now.”

  “I’m sure she’s all right,” Gerald said. “Maybe she got caught in the rain. Tell you what—take my car. Keys are on the hook by the door.”

  “Thanks.” Boone went straight for the keys and dashed out the door. The old Daihatsu started with a cough and he headed for The Road.

  The first thing Emily became aware of was a sound. A rattling sound, like BBs on a cookie pan. No… raindrops. Rain on metal. She opened her eyes. She was lying on her side in the dirt, her cheek in a patch of mud. It looked like she was in some sort of floorless shack, the tin roof above explaining the sound. Apart from a broken chair, a couple plastic buckets, and a coil of nylon rope, the interior was empty. The shack was so ramshackle she was surprised it was standing, and she could see rain through gaps in the boards. A phrase entered her head, one that every damsel in distress seemed to utter when she came to, but there was no denying it was appropriate to the circum
stances: Where am I? She decided to say the words out loud but all that came out was “Whrr mm mh?” If felt like there was some kind of cloth in her mouth, held in place by… Oh, great, another cliché. He gagged me. No… not a gag. Pushing out her upper lip, she looked down. Duct tape. Well, we’ll just see about that. Emily tried to reach up to remove the tape… but no reach occurred. Arms tied behind my back. Nice. And that probably means… She tried to move her legs but felt resistance there, too. Looking at her feet, she saw her ankles were bound in layers and layers of duct tape. Well, at least I’m not tied to railroad tracks. Emily was shocked at how calm she felt. She immediately began flexing and twisting her wrists, testing the strength of the tape. I wonder where tall, blond, and barmy is?

  Her mental query was quickly answered by nearby footsteps, squelching in the mud. Cursing and muttering floated in the air above the sounds of her captor’s approach.

  Think fast, Em. Try to interact with him? Or pretend I’m still out cold?

  “I am coming, oh Great Ones! The Ascent will happen in time! But first I had to find a fucking walking stick because you let her break my fucking toe!”

  Okayyyyy. Screaming at imaginary people, pissed at me for breaking his toe… fake unconsciousness it is. Emily closed her eyes and played possum.

  Moments later, the man entered the shack and she could sense him sitting on the busted chair. A rustling sound, a thump as something flopped into the mud, a zipper being opened (God, I hope that’s not pants), then the unmistakable sound of duct tape being pulled from a roll. Oh, come on, I’m tied up enough already, she protested to the universe. Risking a millimeter crack in an eyelid, she peeped through her eyelashes and saw with relief that the maniac was taping two of his toes together with half strips. I got you good, you twat. The thump she’d heard had been his boot, which he pulled onto his newly taped foot with a grunt of pain. Emily let her lids close as he finished lacing up. She heard him shift on the protesting chair and then her skin crawled as she felt rough fingertips brushing aside a loose lock of hair from her face.